


a type that is better dead

by wire_writer



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Also there's some mild cursing because squalo, Gen, Humor, Pre-Canon, also possibly body horror for the same reason, body disposal, its light though, warnings for casual handling of a corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 20:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14961500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wire_writer/pseuds/wire_writer
Summary: “Six hours of sleep were not enough to make Squalo feel awake. They were not enough to make him feel human. They were, however, enough to make him feel… creative.”





	a type that is better dead

**Author's Note:**

> For storm day, body disposal!
> 
> Title comes from Ruyard Kipling's "A Death-Bed".
> 
> Set pre-canon.
> 
> I'll come back with another edit pass soon.

Squalo started the bet because of a joke. Not something he normally had time for, true, but there it was. He had been coming home from Matteo Esposito’s unfortunate and very violent death (one long coming ever since Esposito had chosen to double deal with Vongola goods). The stakeout prior to Esposito’s death had been grueling. Somehow, the fucker managed to walk the line of just-good-enough to hide his evidence while also being a useless coward. Squalo had been sick of his shit half an hour into the job, and ready to spread his entrails across half of Italy by the time he found the evidence he needed.

Needless to say he was irritated, and above all tired, when he got back. Not tired enough to make a mistake on the job, but tired enough that when Bel suggested he freeze Esposito’s corpse to make an example of later, he considered it. Squalo was running on three hours of sleep, thirty hours of stalking one of the most annoying fucks he’d ever killed, six expresso shots, and spite, so the suggestion seemed passably funny in a Bel-like fashion. And well, he deserved it.

So Esposito got dumped in the downstairs freezer, and Squalo got six hours of sleep before he had to do more of the Boss’s fucking paperwork (he refused to think of it as his own). He passed an afternoon buried in squad assignments for the coming month, completely forgetting about Esposito’s body until evening. By then, Esposito had a nice case of freezer burn complimenting his day-old stab wounds (there were multiple). The job, which had come from the Ninth in a roundabout manner (it took longer to get assignments by proxy, but at this point Squalo would sooner cut off his other hand than meet the Ninth face to face), had very few restrictions. Kill Esposito. Find the papers that proved his guilt. Make sure his ‘friends’ got the message. One and two were done; all that was left was to make him into an example.

Six hours of sleep were not enough to make Squalo feel awake. They were not enough to make him feel human. They were, however, enough to make him feel… creative.

His grin was a vindictive thing as he split Esposito in half. His spine splinted under Squalo’s sword, and soon Esposito’s organs were gleaming under the overhead light. The smell was muted due to the freezing, and he resisted the urge to laugh at the sight. Mutilation was only really funny when he was punch drunk on exhaustion. Quickly, he loaded Esposito’s top half into a car, taking care not to drip on the carpet. That was a bitch to clean properly. Then, hoisting up the legs, he went to find Mammon.

Mammon as it turned out was in their office, a thing of dark varnished wood and endless spreadsheets. Squalo had found it hilarious at first, one of the Arcobaleno concerned about the Varia’s profit margins, but his humor had eventually worn away to grudging respect. Mammon’s work gave the Varia a tight grip on their finances, cutting away excess expenses that Squalo never even considered. More profit for the Varia also meant more profit for the esper, but there were other ways a psychic could make money. That they chose the one that benefitted the Varia the most was not something that Squalo ignored.

He had spent more hours than he could count in that same office, pouring over budget forms and bitching about rookies who wouldn’t know a mission report if it bit them in the ass. Mammon’s biting commentary was a plus, something he sought out when the hole in his heart was sharper than the blade of their tongue. They both missed the Boss, and Mammon didn’t charge to keep silent about his tears.

Somewhere along the way, underneath the crushing weight of leading the Varia, of running missions and numbers and lives until both their eyes bled, of longing for their Boss, they had become friends. So, when Squalo barged through the door and dumped half of Matteo Esposito on their desk, Mammon didn’t immediately throw him out a window.

Esposito dripped a little onto their spreadsheets, defrosting one pathetic inch at a time. Unfortunately, Squalo’s amusement at the sight was not shared by Mammon, who stared at the pair of legs with vague disgust.

“Who is this, and why is it my problem?” Their request to remove the legs was unspoken, but plain to Squalo’s ears. He grinned, and moved next to the window, where his favorite mug was kept.

“This was Matteo Esposito, former runner of Vongola drugs through Russia.” His good hand waved towards where the corpse’s pelvis used to attach to a spine. “Now, it’s half of Matteo Esposito.”

Mammon’s glare was dry as dust, but they rose to the bait anyway. “Congratulations. Why is half of Matteo Esposito on my desk?”

Squalo grinned wider, and gestured towards the sun, nearly set. As he got out some of Mammon’s fancy sparkling water (It came in flavors such as ‘acai pear’ and ‘orange blossom and melon’, the best part being that Mammon wouldn’t admit to drinking it at all. Squalo, kind friend that he was, took every opportunity he could to do so.), he explained. “I want to make a bet. Loser has to talk to Levi about his next assignment.” He knew from experience that Mammon hated both talking to Levi, and losing. Their reply was wary but curious, and he carefully hid his triumph. That they were asking at all meant he had their interest at the very least.

“And what does the winner get?”

Bargaining with Mammon was like standing on the edge of a storm. There was a weight to the air that promised their full attention, one that sent a thrill down his spine, tired as he was. “Winner gets 500 euros upon completion and a favor to be called in. No limits.” Mammon’s hands stilled from where they had been moving their spreadsheets away from Esposito’s dripping. 500 euros was little more than pocket change to them, but a favor. From a Varia officer, a favor was worth more than Squalo’s weight in gold.

He knows they’re going to agree when they put the papers away entirely. “What are the terms?”

Squalo pointed decisively at the corpse between them, letting himself have his first piece of fun in weeks. “I have half of this corpse in a car downstairs, your half is here. The mission is to dispose of it in such a way that stops all of Esposito’s associates from even considering doing what he did. Time limit is sunrise. Whoever gets the most creative, wins.”

Mammon’s eyes gleamed from beneath their hood, Fantasma rising from its place on their head. “You’re on.”


End file.
